The Taste of Ink
by Gravestic
Summary: Harry isn't good with words and prefers to express his feelings through actions - Draco Malfoy does the exact opposite. When they meet each other at university, they are both fascinated, not that they would ever admit it.


Harry looked into the mirror: His green eyes were dark-circled and hidden behind large glasses. His black hair was, though combed a minute ago, chaotic and looked terrible and barely covered the ugly scar on his forehead. His shirt was grey, his suit looked shabby. His shoes had dirt on them.

This day was going to be a complete disaster.

Harry had been accepted at Kings to study Literature. His application had been nothing more than half a bad joke and half a desperate attempt. Kings usually harbored extremely rich and well-educated students, while Harry's grades had never been better than B. Not even to speak of his financial situation: He lived with his aunt and uncle, both not exactly poor but unwilling to pay for his education. His parents have left him nothing but a name. His father, James Potter, had been a famous author for fantasy novels. But both his father and his mother had died in a car accident when he was five and he couldn't remember much expect long, red hair, the silhouette of his father sitting on his bed, Harry nearly asleep, reading something for him in such a gentle voice the imagination alone let him smile.

He knew his father alone was the reason he was accepted at College and he knew too well he would fail his classes anyway.

He sighed, corrected his black tie and left the house.

The sky was still pitch-black when he arrived. It was late winter and the coldness paralyzed his body even through his coat. He buried his face in the red scarf his father had left him and exhaled slowly. His coffee cup felt warm and pleasant in his hand as he finally walked in.

The hall was already full of other students, all happily chatting with each other. They all had perfect white teeth and stunning hair and they all just looked so _successful_. This wasn't his place; it was the place of previous head boys, beauty queens, prize-winners and what did he know. He overheard a conversation of a young girl who talked about her parents being millionaires with – according to him – a successful writer who got his first prize at age eleven. He nearly crumpled his cup of coffee. _Nice_.

"Hello, good morning, quiet please." A man around forty appeared and suddenly, Harry wasn't the worst dressed person in the room anymore. He looked like the night before an exam in person, with messy hair and dirty shoes and hands full of ink; huge scars covered his face. And, the worst of all: he was wearing a Christmas sweater. It was February.

"Yes...better. So, I'm going to show you the house before you actually start studying here. I hope we have..." He let his eyes wander through the crowd with a mild smile, until he saw Harry. He didn't quite know what the older man was thinking – his eyes widened, his jaw dropped and then he looked almost sad, and in the next moment like nothing had happened at all.

"Where was I? Right, about having a good time...yes, of course. My name is Remus Lupin. If you would follow me?"

Mr. Lupin showed them the whole house, until they finally came to the library. Harry had been dreaming the whole time, not listening to a single word – but now, with the smell of old books and ink in his nose, he came to his senses again. That was why he had wanted to study literature – that was the place he always lost himself in. The library was a huge hall with walls covered in bookshelves.

"The library, our last stop. Silence is a self-evidence in here, as is good behavior. And those-" He pointed at very old books hidden in showcases of glass. "-are one of the most precious books we own. If you would be so kind to look closer?"

Harry saw an old version the Grimm's tales; an original Shakespeare; even an extremely old bible.

"As you can see, those are-"  
"Completely boring," Lupin got interrupted. Everyone turned around, keen to know who could be so dumb to interrupt a professor. It was a young, blond man with sharp facial features and piercing grey eyes. He looked like the personification of success and arrogance.

"I mean," the blond continued, "We have heard this stories again and again and again, for forever and three days on. How comes we still love them? They are empty by now, nothing more than rotten memories held captive in pages. Nothing but an old idea." He now stood up, grinning. "We don't love the books but their names; we love the safety they give us by relying on something the past has been relying on – the time they have gone new ways is dead, and the presence is held captive by their corpses. Yet some stupid brats still value them, call them classic, just to excuse themselves for not thinking of something new. We are in love with empty names."

The crowd was whispering now, clearly impressed by blondie's words. Even Harry, who knew as good as the blond himself that this monologue had only been for attention and pure bullshitting, was weirdly fascinated by the way he spoke. There was something addicting to it.

"Maybe you're the wrong one to talk about hiding behind big names, _Malfoy_." Lupin answered coolly.

Something in Harry's mind clicked. Malfoy. Of course. The family was known all over Britain for being rich, classic and consisting of assholes. No - They were not only _known_ , they were _famous_. Lucius Malfoy was the most present and something between oil tycoon and mafia boss. His wife Narcissa was a fashion designer and was on covers of dozens of fashion magazines. So this guy had to be their son, Draco.

"Maybe you're the wrong one to talk about what I should and should not do." Malfoy sneered back and focused on the young students instead. "Good luck here! Want to achieve nothing new? Follow old paths? Live a completely boring and uninteresting life? Then you came to the right place!"

" _Malfoy_." Lupin didn't sound this relaxed this time. "Don't make this university responsible for your insane need of being different. You're not."

"And you know that, do you?" The blond grinned, "You know who can be special and who cannot? Lupin, you have always lived in books. You know nothing of humans."

"Headmaster's office," he only answered.

"What? Can't you deal with me yourself?"

"I have better things to do than dealing with a pathetic teenager in his first midlife crisis, thank you very much. And now go, before I'm going to get you into real trouble. And, uh..." Now Lupin turned around, scanning the crowd until he saw right into Harry's eyes. "I need to talk to you."

Lupin's office smelled like tea, ink and home. As in Harry's room, everything looked shabby but charming. This room was the place one wanted to be in when it rains, full of books and dreams and warmth.

"Do you want coffee? Tea? Cookies? Cake? Chocolate? Sit down, boy." Lupin talked very fast now and seemed extremely nervous, his hands running over his face. "Okay. I- I'm sorry. I'm probably terribly wrong but are you – no, wait. I should take a seat myself first. God, I must confuse you."

"Terribly so," Harry smiled as both of them sat down. "And no, I don't want sweets or a hot drink, thank you."

"Good...good. This might sound weird and I am probably terribly mistaken but are you – are you James' son?"

Harry needed a moment to get the question. How could Mr. Lupin possibly know about his father?

"You know, James Potter was a close friend of mine. So was Lily, his wife. I just...you look a lot like them," Lupin explained himself shyly.

"Yes." He answered after a moment of pure surprise. "I mean, yes, I am James' son. And Lily's. I guess." Harry didn't really know how to think anymore. He had never prepared for a situation like this, for being asked about his father. That wasn't how things were in Harry's universe. In there, the only question related to his family were "Alright, who can pay for the mess you made?" and "Who can I call to pick you up?".

"I knew it! Oh Harry – I can call you by your first name, can I? - you have no idea, how happy I am! We are! After...what happened to your parents, we completely lost you, no one wanted to tell us where you live and we were searching for so long, oh dear. What a fine man you became!" Lupin stopped himself, grinning. "Jesus, I'm sorry. I must sound like an an old uncle you haven't seen for years. Excuse me."

"I like that." Harry muttered without thinking. He liked being someone others were happy about. It made his chest feel warm. "But who is 'we'?"

"Oh. Of course. Uh. With 'we' I meant me and Sirius. He was also a close friend of your father, the closest probably."

"Ah." He didn't know what to answer.

"Also, he's your Godfather. And he missed you terribly, can I...I mean, can I tell him that I found you? Would you like to meet him?"

The fact that Harry had a family made him dizzy. Not the Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kind of family, but a real family. Someone who cared for him. Someone who liked him.

"Yeah. Sounds great," he said. Lupin smiled. It was an extremely warm and cheesy smile, one you smiled when you were completely happy, like at your birthday or at Christmas.

"He will freak out. Or wait! Even better, you call him yourself, if you like? I give you his phone number."

"Sounds great." Harry repeated himself.

Twenty minutes later, Harry walked out of the office, with a new phone number in his pocket and a stomach full of chocolate cookies. He wasn't sure this conversation had been real. Maybe this was all some kind of weird dream or Remus (he was allowed to call him by his first name now) was playing with him. Nevertheless, the smile on his face simply didn't vanish. He must looked like an idiot.

Then he saw Malfoy. The blond came out of a room with a heavy door, probably the Headmaster's office, and looked pretty stressed. Harry had had a lot of luck today. He could leave it at that. He decided not to.

"Uhm. Hi!" Malfoy turned around to face him, an eyebrow raised.

"What is it, first-year?" The tone was sharp and cold. Malfoy was annoyed, Harry noticed. Ok, time to not fuck this up.

"You remember me?"

"I'm able to recognize a face I saw an hour before, yes. In case you want me to be your friend – not interested. Go play with your dolls, little boy."

"Uh, actually," Harry muttered, trying his hardest to focus. It wasn't easy to speak when someone like Malfoy stared at him like that. He wanted to talk about what he had said in the library but his tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

"Actually _what_?" Malfoy pressed on.

"Actually, I wanted to talk about what you said at the library. I've never seen anyone bullshitting so impressive before." He complimented him.

"I wasn't bullshitting. I meant what I said."

Oh. _Oh_. So this hadn't been attention seeking in the first point. He had been serious. And now he felt attacked. Good job Harry, you managed to fuck this up. As usual.

"But it _was_ bullshit," Harry managed to say. "You can't really mean that. That these old books are useless."

"So, what are they good for now? Tell me, if you think of yourself as smart enough to criticize my opinion."

"How do I put this into words..." Harry was only trying to save himself now. He didn't want that Malfoy hated him, there was something about the blond he liked, even though he was quite an asshole. "Okay, so. These books are...kind of...oh shit." He sighed. Just image you talk to yourself, he thought. "They might be not as interesting and new as the books we have now. To be honest, you were right, they are boring and empty by now, often used. But it has to be that way. Before you are a writer, you read. And every book you read influences and forms you. These old books, they were the first things that ever were. There was barely influence when they were written, yet they formed the way of books. In every book we read, we have a bit of their soul. Do you get what I mean? Man, it's hard to explain..."  
Harry waited for an answer for a few seconds, staring at Malfoy's shoes. When said remained silent, he raised his head to look into his eyes. The look on his face was...he couldn't read it. Harry wasn't very good with reading facial expressions anyway and Malfoy made it extra hard. He smiled. His lips were slightly pursed, he noticed, in a way that made them look fuller and very kissable – but Harry doubted that was his intention. His eyes were...was it playful? Interested? Something between these things. He didn't know. Maybe Malfoy was making fun of him in his mind.

"What's your name, newbie?" He finally asked. Thanks God, Harry thought. Interested. That was it.

"Harry."

"For someone at this university, you think an awful lot. Good work. I changed my mind."

"Eh?"

"About being friends with you. I think you're worth a shot. We're going to see each other this friday, I'll pick you up after your last class. Understood?"

"Uh. Okay."

"See you." With that, Malfoy turned around and simply left. Harry found himself staring. Even his walk looked elegant and he had quite a nice back, with broad shoulders and a slim waist. The shirt was tight enough to let him see his muscles. It made Harry feel weird. 


End file.
